


Digging into the lore

by frozen_delight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad Dirty Talk, Cursed Sam, First Time, M/M, Terrible Euphemisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 02:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7739716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frozen_delight/pseuds/frozen_delight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of sex spells and other disasters. Loosely inspired by a prompt on the spn_kinkmeme asking for Sam being cursed with an erection + loss of tactile sense and Dean helping him take care of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Digging into the lore

**Author's Note:**

> Something Made Them Do It Vol. 53. But hey, at least I’m writing.
> 
> Many, many thanks to my ever patient beta and cheerleader MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd. All remaining mistakes are mine of course.

 

“Great diversion, Sammy— _dude_ ,” came Dean’s voice from his right, changing from gleeful to scandalized, “what is it with you and evil chicks?”

“Umm…what?” Sam tore his gaze away from Rowena’s retreating form on the skywalk above them. With the Book of the Damned safely tucked under one arm, Dean had come to a halt beside him, his wide eyes glued to the—what the fuck?— _tented_ front of Sam’s pants.

Sam cast a quick glance around the spacious dining hall. None of the other hotel guests paid any attention to them, thank Chuck. He waved an awkward hand between them. “This isn’t…uh…I don’t know?”

It was like being thirteen all over again. Sam still cringed when he remembered how Dean had laughed at him and ruffled his hair whenever Sam’s stupid dick decided to have a noticeable life of its own, like it was adorable; how oblivious he’d been of Sam’s perverse want to rub himself all over Dean until his skin was as raw and itchy as Sam’s adolescent heart and he could no longer mistake him for a child.

Wind forward twenty years, and here he was, randomly popping erections, his brother grinning at him just like he had back then, filling Sam with the same confused desire to wipe that smirk off his face.

“You need to get laid more often, man,” Dean said. His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Your body’s clearly fed up with living like a monk.”

“Shut up.” Sam bit back a couple of choice remarks about all the things Dean’s body might be fed up with. Just ‘cause Sam’s dick was behaving like a thirteen-year-old didn’t mean Sam had to.

Fortunately, Dean’s attention span equaled that of a butterfly drifting from one beautiful flower to the next. Soon the sight of a plate of cherry pie distracted him. Or the sight of the pretty waitress carrying it. It was difficult to tell.

Left to his own devices, Sam decided to take care of his little—actually, not so little—problem in the nearest restroom. However, as soon as he had a hand down his pants, Sam discovered that he wasn’t dealing with a simple nine-inch-problem.

He couldn’t feel the touch of his hands.

The memory of Rowena’s deep red mouth rose up before him, the corners curling upwards as she spoke her parting words, _You should really learn to appreciate magic more, Samuel._

_Friggin’ witches, man_ , he could hear Dean say in his head. Groaning, he buried his face in his hands.

***

The bunker’s obscurely well-stocked library quickly provided an answer to the straining question in Sam’s pants. Apparently, Rowena had found it funny to hit him with the ironic kind of curse that combined an erection with the loss of tactile sense. According to his research, the only thing that could break the curse was an orgasm. Great. How was he supposed to achieve that when he couldn’t feel a damn thing when he touched himself?

Sam pushed up from his chair and gasped. The hot throb in his cock was becoming painful. With distaste, he remembered the time Dean had decided to try out Viagra for kicks. By the time Sam had dragged him to the hospital, Dean’s face had been dark purple. He’d been lucky that there was no lasting damage. The spellbook remained silent about what ensued if the curse wasn’t lifted within a certain timeframe. Sam had no interest in finding out.

Yet after an hour or two of frustrated efforts to bring himself off Sam began to fear that he might not have a say in that matter.

He tried everything he could think of—different positions, different toys, different porn vids. In the end, he even revisited a fantasy from his Stanford days.

_I wanna watch my brother fuck you_ , Sam had told Jess when they’d discussed their kinkiest thoughts one night. _I wanna see him have the best night of his life knowing that it’s only because I’m allowing it._ It felt good to give an honest answer at least once.

Jess didn’t call him a sick fuck or mock his sibling rivalry. She’d giggled. _Ooooh, hot!_ _If he’s only half as cute as you are, I’m in._

After Jess’s death, he’d never indulged in that fantasy again. It hurt too much to even think of her.

Now he tried to picture the scene as he’d imagined it back at Stanford—Dean lying on his back, Jess riding him, her head thrown back. He was sitting in a chair in the corner, facing Jess, observing every shift of her expression, every ripple of her muscles.

He couldn’t bring the picture into full focus. Jess remained a dim shape beyond his grasp. In his mind’s eye he then twisted his head to look at Dean. His brother wasn’t the lewd twink he’d been in Sam’s Stanford fantasies. And he wasn’t having sex. Instead, Sam beheld Dean’s upturned face at the end of a successful hunt, a smile breaking through the sweat, dirt and exhaustion covering his features; a smile that burned brighter than fireworks and hunter funerals, as if Dean’s entire soul lived in the corners of his mouth and the crinkles around his eyes.

Blinking against the brightness, Sam averted his gaze and silently crept out of his fantasy and back into the bleak reality of his bedroom. All it had stirred in him was a twinge of guilt.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, disrupting Sam’s miserable thoughts. He only managed to pull up his boxers before Dean poked his head into the room. He didn’t want to imagine what he must look like to Dean, sitting on his bed in nothing but a tee and boxers, his hair sticking to his forehead, a discarded dildo lying near his hip. He really should have thought of closing his door.

Dean’s eyes zoomed in on the clear outline of Sam’s erect cock straining against his boxers. “Again? What’s gotten into you today? Are you trying to make up for the action you missed out on in the last three years?”

When Sam didn’t even muster up an annoyed frown, Dean’s demeanor immediately changed from teasing to concerned. “Hey, you okay?” He plopped down on the mattress next to Sam and put a hand on his thigh. Sam couldn’t feel the weight of Dean’s warm palm against his skin, but he found the gesture comforting all the same.

He swallowed down his embarrassment and took a deep breath, inhaling the waft of fruity shower gel that clung to Dean’s skin, before he let the whole sorry tale spill out of his mouth.

“Dude, why didn’t you tell me we have a sex spellbook?” was Dean’s first question. He sounded positively giddy. Trust Dean to have his priorities straight.

Sam snapped his fingers in front of Dean’s radiant eyes. “Focus!”

To his credit, Dean sobered at once. “Okay, go to a bar, pick someone up,” he suggested.

“Yeah, right.” Sam pointed at his erection. “Anyone is going to think I’m a creepy serial rapist if I approach them like that.”

Dean tilted his head and regarded Sam with an appraising expression. “I guess,” he conceded, “but you’d be a hot creepy serial rapist at least.”

Like always, Sam ignored the weird flip his stomach did at the words. Thirty-three years and counting, and some stupid part of him still wasn’t immune to Dean’s flirty jokes. “Thanks, that really makes me feel better.”

“So you can’t go out to pick someone up—so what? We can always arrange for someone to come here.”

Sam snorted. “Like that zombie bride you invited?”

“That was one time!”

“We scraped her entrails off the telescope for days!”

Dean’s mouth twitched unhappily at the memory. He sighed. “Okay, you drama queen, hospital then.”

Sam had to restrain himself from banging his head against the night table. He’d already considered everything Dean suggested, only to scrap the idea. “And tell them what?” he asked with a frustrated shrug. “No, I haven’t taken any Viagra, no, I didn’t have a stroke, but for some reason I’ve got an erection that won’t go away and I can’t feel a damn thing?”

“Alright.” Dean clapped his hands against his kneecaps and made to rise to his feet.

“No, Dean!” Sam grabbed him by the elbow. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Be smart, Sam,” Dean said, trying to wrench his arm out of Sam’s grip.

“I am smart. And that’s why I said no. We’re not making a trade with Rowena. Why do you think she cursed me? She knew we’d try to steal the Book of the Damned.”

“Sam—!”

“No, we’re not giving the book back to her.”

“Come on, Sam, you really wanna risk having your dick fall off?” Dean sounded every bit as frustrated as Sam felt. “Not that you have much use for the woody womb pecker,” he added with a faint quirk of his lips.

Sam laughed despite himself. A surge of affection for his ridiculous brother seized him, almost enough to drown out the painful heat in his cock.

“Dean—” he tightened his grip on his brother’s arm “—let’s wait a bit at least, okay? I’ll hit the books, maybe we’ll figure out something else.”

Dean thrust his tongue against the inside of his cheek, a thoughtful expression on his face. “There is one other thing we could try,” he said. “I could give you a hand.”

Sam’s gaze flickered down to where Dean’s hands were spread across his knees. Most of Dean’s life story was written into those calloused knuckles, the faint red scars, the hint of gun oil under the fingernails. And not just Dean’s.

“Look,” Dean said in such a soft, imploring tone that Sam’s eyes snapped back up to his face of their own accord. The pleading curve of Dean’s mouth roused something deep inside Sam, something protective, something fierce, something like guilt, grief and reckless want all wrapped in one. _Don’t you look at me like that_ , he wanted to protest, to shield himself, to shield them both, but his mouth was too dry to speak.

“It’s weird, I know,” Dean continued meanwhile, “but we can get drunk afterwards and pretend it never happened, right?”

“How do you even know it’s gonna work?” Sam asked. One last token of protest that sounded meaningless even to his own ears. Who was he kidding? He’d fallen a long, long time ago.

The earnest expression on Dean’s face melted away into a cocky grin. “Don’t worry, Sammy. Ain’t a chick I haven’t been able to make come yet.”

“Haha, very funny.” Sam shifted on the bed, rolling his eyes. He could feel the tension seeping out of his limbs. As long as Dean juggled stupid puns and even more stupid boasts in front of him like he’d always done, there was no reason why this had to change anything between them.

Dean patted the mattress next to him. “Come on, princess, unleash the kraken.”

Sam fake-groaned. “You know, I think I’ll try my luck at the hospital.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” The look of determination on Dean’s face alone would have been enough to make Sam come in any other circumstances. “I can help you. Let the magic fingers do their work.”

Dean flexed his hands and Sam groaned again. “Dude, I hate to tell you this, but your jokes are about as much of a turn-on as a ghost with his guts spilling out.”

“Down to business, then.” Dean made a great show of straightening his shoulders and contorting his face into a more serious expression. He waved a bossy hand at Sam’s crotch.

Sam hesitated with his hand on the waistband of his boxers. A blush rose high in his cheeks. He threw a helpless glance at Dean.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean said quietly, covering Sam’s shaking hand with his. “Ain’t nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Great, as if Sam had needed another reminder that this was Dean, his big brother, who’d changed his diapers when he was little.

“Can you at least—?” Sam motioned awkwardly at Dean’s boots.

“Sure.” Dean toed off his boots. Unprompted, he then stripped down to his t-shirt and shorts, shedding layer upon layer of clothing with the easy grace inherent in everything he did. Sam felt unspeakably grateful to him.

Sam pushed down his boxers and nodded at Dean.

“Okey-dokey.” Dean threw him an encouraging wink. “Let’s take that semen-steamin’ truck for a spin.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Sam said and hid his face in the crook of his elbow.

“You say the sweetest things,” Dean bantered and curved a hand around the fat hard length of Sam’s cock.

Slowly, Sam let his arm drop and stared. Dean was jerking his cock with sure, dexterous fingers. Yet Sam’s dumb skin didn’t even register a tickle.

He remembered those long-gone sick, sultry nights, in which his skin felt too hot and tight, and his bones ached with a craving he didn’t understand. How he’d stood in front of the grimy bathroom mirror of whatever nondescript motel they’d checked into and couldn’t believe that the madness under his skin wasn’t leering back at him.

A similar sense of unreality enfolded him now. They were crossing one of the very few boundaries they hadn’t broken yet in their unorthodox lives. It seemed unfathomable that he couldn’t feel a thing.

It should have been unsettling. Sam didn’t know what it said about him that instead pleasure built low in his stomach.

With growing wonder, Sam watched the competent movements of Dean’s fingers, listened to the quiet slap of skin on skin. Hope flooded him as he realized that the strokes and twists of Dean’s hand had taken him closer to the edge than he’d been all day.

With bated breath he lifted his eyes to Dean’s face, ready to meet his brother’s smug _Told ya!_ smirk. Only it wasn’t there.

Dean wore the same look of intense concentration he’d sported when he’d helped Sam with his homework in primary school, his lips poised, the tip of his tongue sticking out between his teeth. Any moment now, Dean was gonna start humming _Smoke on the Water_.

His stomach lurched and Sam twisted out of Dean’s grip. “Sorry, man, it’s not working.”

“I thought we were getting somewhere,” Dean said and reached for him again.

“Don’t!” Sam protested, clutching at Dean before he could touch him again. Distantly, he noted how easily his fingers circled his brother’s wrist, how fragile Dean’s hand looked in comparison to his. How long it had been since Dean had held his hand and guided him through his first, unsteady steps. “I told you, I can’t feel a damn thing.”

“So?” Dean arched an eyebrow, not discouraged in the slightest. A wicked gleam crept into his eyes. “Sex isn’t all about touch, young Padawan.”

Brows furrowed, Sam watched Dean shuffle on the bed. He stretched out one leg and kicked the dildo off the sheets with the tip of his toes. Then he positioned himself on his knees and grinned.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he announced with a flick of his hand that would have done any master of ceremonies proud. “Free live porn, brought to you by yours truly.”

“What are you—?” Sam began to ask at the same time as Dean said, “Watch this,” and shoved his hand into his own boxers.

Compared to his favorite _Casa Erotica_ episodes, Dean’s performance was almost absurdly tame. He didn’t take out his dick, the dark fabric of his underwear a steady barrier between them. He didn’t strip off his tee. And he was neither fingering himself nor pinching his nipples.

Yet Sam felt sure every viewer would have been just as riveted by the sight as he was.

Every fiber of Dean’s body was taut like a perfectly balanced bow. He was resting on his haunches, shoulders and head tipped back as if trying to catch a ray of sunlight, his pelvis canted forwards, seeking contact with his hand. His t-shirt had ridden up, bunched around his muscular chest and forearms, exposing a sliver of pale, freckled skin.

Sam’s mouth ran dry. As if in answer, Dean’s tongue darted out, wetting his lips. His hooded eyes flickered towards Sam.

“That’s it,” he said in a tone that was softer and deeper than his normal voice; a tone which convinced Sam that if he were to press his lips to Dean’s shiny red mouth, he’d taste peanut butter banana sandwiches and mac-n-cheese.

The pumping motions of Dean’s hand sped up. A moist spot had formed around the bulge in his boxers, showcasing his erection rather than hiding it. Maybe that had been Dean’s motive all along; not any residual qualms about the oldest taboo in the world.

Quiet, hitched breaths fell from Dean’s half-open mouth. Private wisps of sound that filled Sam with the delicious thrill of almost being caught eavesdropping.

His balls tightened. A surge of primal warmth swept over him and he let himself sink into it.

As though he were riding on the same wave of pleasure, Dean tilted his head further back, and scrunched his eyes tight shut. A stray drop of sweat clung to his lashes. It hovered there for a moment, then fell to the corner of his mouth just as he bit down on his lower lip, hard, swallowing back a low, guttural moan.

Sam held his breath, his pulse throbbing furiously at the back of his throat. He was close, he was so close.

Dean slowly opened his eyes and looked at him, with a murky green, wet sheen of content.

Holding Sam’s gaze, he extracted his hand from his boxers and lifted it towards Sam’s face. The tips of his fingers were covered with pearly white come.

“Smell this,” he said, and Sam was powerless to do anything but obey. A nutty, slightly bitter odor wafted up his nostrils, familiar, yet still distinct from his own.

“Taste it,” Dean then said, prodding a fingertip at Sam’s lip. Reflexively, Sam opened up and sucked the finger into his mouth.

“And now swallow,” Dean instructed him, and Sam did.

He barely registered the faint, salty taste before his orgasm hit him like a freight train and he whited out in relief.

When he came back to his senses he was wrapped around Dean with ivylike insistency, digging his fingers into sweaty, warm skin, pressing his lips to Dean’s plush mouth.

It took him a moment to realize that Dean was trying to wiggle out of his embrace. Reluctantly, he let go.

Dean fixed him with a look he couldn’t place. “Did it work?”

Sam stared at him, nonplussed.

Dean nodded towards his crotch.

Sam glanced down at himself. His cock had gone soft. Half-dried flakes of come coated his skin, beginning to itch.

As he reached down to scratch himself, the meaning of Dean’s words caught up with him. He couldn’t believe that he’d forgotten the curse. And the uncomfortable prickle of the crusted splotches of come on his dick sufficiently answered the question.

“Yeah,” he replied, unable to meet Dean’s eyes. “Everything’s back to normal.”

The words sounded hollow to his ears. Forgetting that only a supernatural emergency could have prompted that kind of intimacy between a pair of brothers—yeah, that was about as far from normal as it could get, even by Winchester standards.

“Good,” said Dean and Sam could hear the frown in his voice.

He swallowed and forced himself to look up at Dean, forced himself to smile. “Thanks,” he said.

For a moment, Dean only regarded him in silence, still with that look Sam couldn’t read. Then his stomach rumbled, rupturing the tension between them.

“I’m hungry,” Dean said and Sam snickered.

“You just had pie.”

Dean turned doleful eyes towards him. “Just one bite and then Celia was on me…”

“Oh man.” Sam took in his brother’s aggrieved moue and laughed. He could easily picture the scene. Maybe a little too easily.

“Did you make a grocery run on your way back?” Dean asked.

“I had more pressing matters on my mind,” Sam retorted.

Dean sighed and wiped his hand on Sam’s sheets. “Alright,” he said with the air of a man carrying the weight of the entire world on his shoulders, as he slid off the bed and leveraged himself to his feet. “I’m gonna grab a quick shower and get us some grub. And then it’s finally research time, bitches.” The last words were accompanied by Dean bouncing up and down on his toes.

“Research?” Sam blinked at his brother. He’d never seen his brother so elated at the prospect of hitting the books. “Wha—why?”

“We have a sex spellbook now,” Dean proclaimed with a great flourish. He shrugged off his t-shirt. Then he stepped out of his soiled boxers and tossed them at Sam’s head. “And you’re gonna do the laundry for once.”

Dumbly, Sam stared at Dean’s muscular thighs as Dean spun around on his heels and strutted towards the door. He clutched the damp fabric of Dean’s underwear against his chest.

In the doorway, Dean glanced back at him. “Hey Sam,” he said with a wry twist of his mouth, “I finally get why you call it digging into the lore.”

Sam groaned and curled his face into his hands. Or rather— _into Dean’s boxers_ , he noticed over the sound of Dean’s receding footsteps.

An hour ago, he would have jerked up his head in disgust.

Now, though, he inhaled the masculine scent that clung to the fabric and brushed his thumb over the wet front, feeling the tacky evidence of what had just happened. Sweat, come, no trace left of that fruity shower gel.

Entranced, he rubbed his cheek against the material, before he finally licked over the spurts of dried come covering it, burying his tongue deeper and deeper in the dark cave of cotton. He never wanted to emerge.

How convenient Dean had assigned him laundry duty. Sam smiled against the sticky fabric. No one said he had to do it today.

***

One of the reasons Sam rarely did casual hook-ups was because he hated the awkward mornings after with their insipid goodbye kisses and perfunctory _I’ll call you_ ’s traded like play money between rumpled sheets, rumpled clothes and even more rumpled faces.

When he woke up the day after Rowena had cursed him, he found himself dreading even more the awkwardness that lay ahead – because there’d only be silence to fill it.

To his great surprise and even greater relief, it turned out to be just like any other morning at the bunker. Clad in the dead guy robe and grandpa slippers he’d taken a shine to for some inexplicable reason, Dean stomped into the kitchen and demanded coffee. With squinty eyes he then glared at his bowl of cereal as though it had launched another apocalypse. After a couple sips of joe and spoonfuls of cornflakes, he finally acknowledged Sam’s presence, scowling at him with now mostly open eyes.

“What?” he grumbled. Apparently, even barely awake he still registered Sam rolling his eyes at him.

“I just don’t get it, man—why do you soak it in milk like that if you don’t even like milk?”

“I like milk just fine, judgy. Just not on its own.” Dean pointed his spoon at Sam like a sword. “Don’t start with the hungry kids in Africa.”

Sam rolled his eyes again.

It wasn’t the first time they’d had the argument.

The only change brought on by their mutual jerking-off session was that Dean was now glued to the sex spellbook.

“Dude, wouldn’t it be awesome if there was a spell making you bendy enough to suck your own cock?” he’d say with a dreamy sigh and go over the index, a finger carefully tracing his progress.

Or he’d exclaim, “Man, you gotta see this!” and shove a page promising multiple orgasms to men in Sam’s face.

Each time Dean shared his exciting discoveries, Sam warned him, “If it makes your balls shrivel up instead, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Upon which Dean called him a wet blanket and buried his nose back in the spellbook.

Sam suspected he even slept with the thing.

“Oh baby, you jealous?” Dean teased him when he accidentally voiced the thought aloud. “Don’t worry, I still love ya.”

And he placed a smacking wet kiss on Sam’s nose.

“Ugh, Dean, gross!” Sam protested and wriggled out of his brother’s hold like he was expected to. Like he’d never watched him jack off. Like he’d never kissed him.

Only later did he realize that they hadn’t followed the well-trodden script of their brotherly interactions to the last detail. Or, to be more precise, _he_ hadn’t. He’d forgotten to wipe his nose.

***

At first, Sam wasn’t sure what had woken him. Darkness reigned in the motel room, interrupted only by a faint light falling through the window. As his eyes adapted to the shadows, he could make out a Dean-like shape under the covers on the bed next to his. So whatever had woken him, it wasn’t the sound of Dean sneaking out into the night.

He shut his eyes and waited for sleep to reclaim him.

An indefinite period of time later—a quiet hiss.

Sam reopened his eyes and carefully glanced at the bed beside him. Was Dean having a nightmare? Should he wake him?

Then his ears picked up another sound—the tell-tale friction of skin on skin.

Dean was jerking off.

_Dean was jerking off on the bed next to him._

Holding his breath, Sam listened. To Dean’s quiet breaths, to the soft rustle of the sheets, nearly drowned out by the frenetic thump-thump of his own heart. His skin prickled with frustration and arousal, like an itch one loved to scratch.

More. He needed more.

He didn’t dare touch himself.

As unobtrusively as possible he turned onto his side and stole a glance at his brother. Dean’s profile and torso were barely distinguishable. However, as they travelled further down, Sam’s eyes fastened onto a bulge of fabric—Dean’s thigh, splayed out to allow him better access to his cock.

At the sight, Sam went from half-hard to rock-hard and he bit the back of his hand to contain a groan.

He raised his eyes back up to the level of Dean’s head—and froze. Dean was looking right at him.

Sam swallowed hard. He had no idea what to say. Dean might have dismissed Sam’s kiss as the aftereffects of the curse, but Sam spying on his nocturnal date with his hand? Sam doubted even Dean would be able to shrug that off.

It was Dean who broke the silence. “It’s okay,” he said, and pushed down the blankets. “You can watch.”

Sam released a shaky breath and stared as Dean’s hand resumed its place between his legs. He still couldn’t trust himself to speak.

Dean was just as quiet as he’d been before, only the occasional soft whimper accompanying the rasp of his hand fisting his erection. And even though the blanket no longer obstructed his view, Sam couldn’t discern much more than his brother’s silhouette.

But as Rowena’s curse had proven, it didn’t matter how muted Sam’s senses were, Dean would always find a way to get under his skin.

All too soon it was over.

Sharp sparks of pleasure pulsed through Sam’s erection as he watched Dean’s legs slump back down on the bed. He didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t invariably ruin the mood.

Again, it was Dean who dispelled the silence hanging between them. “You know what would be awesome?” he asked, a little breathless. “A spell that makes your dick glow in the dark. I’ve always wanted to say _Fancy a ride on my disco stick_?”

Sam snorted at his brother’s terrible James Bond impression. “Dean, no one under sixty would fall for that.”

“Good thing then that I appreciate classy ladies with experience,” Dean quipped back and pulled up his sheets.

A moment later something soft and damp hit Sam’s face. As he brushed it off, he caught a whiff of Dean’s scent.

He blinked, clutching the soft, damp item in his hands. Even in the dimly lit surroundings there was no mistaking it. Dean had thrown him his shorts.

“Gross, Dean,” he ground out. It sounded more like a moan.

“Night, Sammy,” said Dean. The tone of his voice was warm, amused, carrying just the hint of something else Sam couldn’t read. With a sigh, he then rolled over onto his other side, vanishing into a bulky shape of down.

For a minute, Sam stared at the lump of sheets that had been his brother. Imagined tracing his fingers over them. Imagined eager warm skin, and soft welcoming lips.

Smiling, he then curled his head into the musky fabric of Dean’s boxers and began grinding his hips into the mattress.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Feedback is love.
> 
> You can also talk to me here: [LJ](http://frozen-delight.livejournal.com/) | [Tumblr](http://frozen-delight.tumblr.com/)


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